Dude, Where's My Car

Recently I bought a new car. I had a big SUV, and the lease was up, and quite frankly I was spending a buttload on car payments and gas, and it had started to not work all that well, and high class prostitutes weren't nakedly flocking to it like I had imagined, and it never fit in the garage so I had to leave it in the driveway and sometimes the stupid hooligan kids in the neighborhood would shoot paintballs at it or smash the back window and not even have the common decency to steal my drug cache or my autographed Phil Hellmuth playing card hidden in the trunk.

With those things in mind, I bought an affordable, slightly used car that gets great gas mileage, will fit in the garage (as soon as we fix the garage door), and gets me from Point A to Point B in an economical and expeditious fashion. This makes me happy because in the long run I'm going to save a bundle of money, and as many people know, one of my favorite things in the world to do is check my account balance, and then imagine myself having a giant vault of money and diving in it and swimming around like Scrooge McDuck. I guess I'm weird.

The problem I had though, is that now I no longer have a giant, officious looking truck. I just have a regular old gray car that looks like 50% of the rest of the cars out there. So I go into the gym the other day and do my workout (25% working out, 70% staring at girls' butts', and 5% trying not to fart loudly and scare the other patrons) and then I finish.

One of my many weaknesses is that once I go into a large building and walk around in it for a while, I get completely discombobulated regarding where things are. I would have scored a lot better on my ACT had I not completely bombed the "Spacial Relationships" portion. Sometimes, when I'm in a large grocery store that I'm not familiar with, I attempt to leave and wind up in the way back of the store, by the employee toilets, which always disturbs the pooping cashiers.

This weakness affects me outside as well. Unless I'm paying complete attention to where I am when I get out of my car, I will have no idea where I've parked when I come back. I've walked many a weary mile at airports and parking garages, quietly seething while trying to figure out where I was at.

Anyhow, I come out of the gym and I instantly realize I have no idea where my car is. Shit. Usually my saving grace in this situation is that I have an automatic door locker that honks the car and flashes the brake lights when I push the "lock" button, so I wander around aimlessly pushing the "lock" button until I see the car honking and flashing at me.

Car: I'm here dummy (Honk Flash). Over here dummy (Honk Flash). You can't drive me if you can't find me dummy (Honk Flash).

Me: Gee, I don't remember parking you here.

Car: Yes, I'm Kit from Knight Rider. I was off fighting bad guys while you were eating bone-in filets. Either that or you are retarded. I'll let you figure it out.

I look down at my key chain, and find that I have no "honkflash saving grace" button. Shit! I say to myself, "OK self, you aren't a huge moron, just think where you parked the car."

I think about it. Absolutely nothing comes to mind. I think some more. I start thinking about burritos. This doesn't help me find the car. I give up.

I say to myself, "OK, so you can't remember where you parked. No biggie, just look for your car. There aren't that many rows."

I start to look for my car, but then I realize I have no idea what it looks like. I'm pretty sure it's a car, and I think it may be gray. It's a Chevrolet, but I can't remember the model name. Something like Oreo, but somehow, I don't believe there's a car called a Chevy Oreo. SHIT!!

I decide that I'm looking for a gray Chevy. There are about 15 in the parking lot. This is embarrassing. I swear at no one in particular, and begin arduously checking each gray car to see if it's mine. I'm sure I look like a really tentative burglar. This sucks.

Car 1: Definitely not. It has one of those things brides wear on their thighs and then throw over their heads and whoever catches it gets married next hanging from the rear view mirror. (Side note: What the hell is that stupid thing called?)

Car 2: Nope. There's a cat carrier in the back seat.

Car 3: Maybe. It looks pretty clean. It's a Chevy. I eyeball it for a while. Then someone gets in it and drives off, while shooting me a peculiar look. I assume it was not mine.

Car 4: Too dirty and pockmarked with hail dents.

Car 5: Too messy on the inside. Looks like a homeless person might live in the back seat, and maybe even urinate back there.

Car 6: Nope. Small dog is in it. I contemplate for a moment that maybe I left my window open a little and a small stray dog hopped in looking for food or warmth or something. I decide this is unlikely.

Car 7: Eureka!! This is definitely it. I confidently stride up to the driver door, and stick my key in. I am perplexed when the door won't open. Why can't I get into my own car? I step back to reassess. I notice that the license plate says "ALL4U2." This is not my car. I kick the air, and then quickly pretend to be stretching my leg as some people walk by.

Car 8: Hell no! There's a plastic bucket filled with buttons on the passenger seat, and a Yanni CD case on the driver's seat. I decide that whoever owns this car sucks a lot.

On the 11th try I found my car. It's called a Chevy Aveo, not an Oreo, and it was parked right by the entrance to the gym and I had just missed it. I had spent about 15 minutes stumbling around the parking lot because I have no brain. This is why I get frustrated with myself sometimes. I've decided that I'll have to put a big red flag on my car, or a nutsack on the tailgate or something so this doesn't happen again. Sometimes it's rough being me...